


As the Bell Chimes Midnight

by thesadchicken



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Original Series, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, MAJOR SELF-INDULGENCE FANFIC, Valentine's Day, and sometimes it gets really intense, hope you guys like it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: On February the 14th, as the bell chimes midnight all over the galaxy, 5 seemingly unrelated couples are reunited by a hopeless romantic’s pen.This is my self-indulgent Valentine’s Day fanfic – my ultimate otp fan project (so far).(Chapters are standalone short-stories. Multi-fandom.)





	1. Come What May (Kirk/Spock)

**Author's Note:**

> While reading, I highly recommend you listen to the songs in the title of each chapter (or an instrumental version of them, since that's what the chapters are based on).

Jim Kirk had been having a wonderful day. A peaceful plain, cerulean grass dancing to the wind’s idle song, and Spock at his side, face turned towards the sun, studying, analysing, pondering, casting that beautiful mind over existence… it was everything Jim had ever wanted.

But then the sky had darkened and the moment had come undone. As the earth splintered and cracked beneath their feet, Jim Kirk had only one word in mind. One word – a name – hanging on the tip of his tongue, and then he turned and saw the mountains shake.

It seemed to happen in slow-motion. The ground gave in and Jim jumped, grabbing onto whatever he could. The rest of the world collapsed, and the name Jim had been screaming in his head escaped his lips, “Spock!”

Hauling himself up onto a newly created cliff edge, Jim whipped his head sideways, his eyes frantically searching for his husband, his bond-mate, the man he’d give his life to protect.

But the peaceful plain at the doorstep of the mighty mountains was no more. Instead, there was a maze of slithering cracks and fissures in the ground, crevices and gaps so large and long they seemed to spread out towards the horizon and reach down into the belly of the earth.

 _Earth_ – had they been on Jim’s home planet, he would’ve known what to do, but this strange world was nothing like Earth. Sizzling rivers of molten lava ran through each crack in the ground, making it nearly impossible to move around. Some gaps were deeper than others, creating a labyrinth of criss-crossing cliffs with rough, jagged edges.

And although Jim strained his neck and eyes searching, there was no sign of Spock. Just the wrecked remains of the peaceful plain, once colourful, now nothing but black and red under a grey sky.

Trembling, Jim stumbled and fell to his knees. His hair was damp and his head ached. He brought one hand up to his forehead and then looked at it: blood coated his fingers. The earth-quake had been so sudden, so unexpected, and then it had all ended so fast – no wonder there had been no sign of inhabitants on this planet.

“Spock!” Jim cried out, scanning the cliffs for any sign of his husband.

No answering call. Jim closed his eyes and reached for the bond, the tether of Vulcan telepathy that bound them together as mates. He sent out a single word, a single beloved word, desperate and pleading: _Spock_.

The bond was silent, and Jim could have died in that horrible silence. But then a ripple – a soft wave undulating through the bond – and a kernel of Spock’s presence lapped at Jim’s mind.

Relief was quickly replaced by worry, as Jim sent another message: _are you hurt?_

Spock’s consciousness was fading. Jim wished he could grab onto it with both hands. _Stay with me, Spock. Tell me where you are_.

It felt as if every ounce of strength Spock had left was used to send down the answer: _Jim. Down a crevice. Incapacitated. 29.4 minutes until lava reaches platform_.

Jim’s mind reeled with panic. He reached into the pockets of his uniform pants, now tattered and torn in places, and found his communicator. Mercifully not broken, but – the signals were all jammed, no communication possible. Jim swore. He checked the time on the communicator before shoving back into his pocket: 28 minutes to midnight, ship-time.

He would take no chances. He would find Spock before midnight.

 _Wait for me, Spock. Stay awake_. A light tug at the bond was the only answer, but it was enough. Heart pounding in his chest and head throbbing with pain, Jim stood at the very edge of the cliff and looked down. The crevice beneath him was too narrow to be the one Spock had mentioned. But beyond it was another cliff, another sharp edge and deep fissure in the ground.

A single drop of blood trickled across Jim’s forehead and down his nose. Wiping it with the back of his sleeve, Jim assessed the distance he’d have to jump to reach the other cliff.

He could’ve easily done it twenty years ago. But he wasn’t that young anymore.

Jim took a deep, shaky breath. He would jump, and he would make it. Because there was no other way; there was no other choice; there could be no other outcome. He was going to make it and he was going to find Spock. So he took three steps back, and he did not look down at his torn and dirty uniform, or at his pudgy, aging form, or his shaking hands.

No. For Spock he would rip the world apart with his bare hands. For Spock he would be thirty again, and this uniform would be of gold and black, and his legs would run the distance and push him over the gaping crevice and boiling lava.

So he ran. And he jumped. And although pain shot through his thighs and back, he reached out with both arms and curved his body inwards, propelling himself forward in the air. He landed on the other side and rolled twice.

Panting, he stood up and scanned the area. _Stay with me, Spock, I’m almost there_. There was another cliff, and two cracks in the ground that ran along each side and then entwined in the middle, creating a larger opening. Jim ran towards it, lightheaded from the jump.

When he reached the edge, a stifling wind had begun blowing across what was once the plain. His uniform jacket was hanging open, fluttering wildly behind him. Heart racing, Jim peered down the edge of the cliff, right where the two cracks met; and there it was, a deep crevice with lava bubbling at the bottom. Jim squinted, eyes darting left and right, searching, hoping, and he found himself pleading to the universe – _he’s here, please, he must be here, he must_ …

And there Spock was, at the very bottom of the pit, lying unmoving on a small rocky platform. It was barely big enough to fit his entire body; his legs dangled over the edge, the lava splashing dangerously close.

Jim wanted to scream but his throat was too dry, his voice too hoarse. So he cried out through the bond, _Spock! I can see you, I’m coming_.

There was no answer, and Spock did not move. Jim’s hands were shaking. He wanted to jump, let himself fall down into the crevice, but he knew that the chances he’d land on the platform were too slim. He’d most likely be swallowed by the lava. Panic was clouding his thoughts, his mind was struggling against the silence at the other end of the bond, shouting his husband’s name over and over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer – _Spock Spock Spock Spock_ …

Without much thought, Jim slid over the edge and began climbing down. The rock was warm and crumbling under him, but he climbed down as fast as he could without falling to his death. His boots slipped more than once, and he had to grasp the stone with his hands. Soon his fingers ached, and his nails were cracked and bleeding. He could feel the skin on his knees and forearms tearing as it scraped the stone, and soon it was all he could do not to cry out in pain.

A faint voice called his name through the bond. _Jim, you must be one with the rock_.

Humour. Of all the times he could have used humour, Spock chose this very moment.

Jim shook his head, in disbelief or in amusement, he didn’t know. Tears stung his eyes but he kept climbing down, projecting thoughts down the bond, instead of words: _amusement, tenderness, gratitude and love_.

A wave of affection flowed back to him.

 _Hang in there Spock. I’m here_.

Jim climbed down, through the pain and the heat and the fear – the mind-numbing fear that gripped him and made his stomach ache – he kept moving through it all, sweating and panting. By the time he reached the bottom he could barely feel his fingers. But he steadied himself, straightened up and turned to face the platform where Spock was lying.

There was a boulder in the way, slicing through the lava and cutting between Jim and Spock. Jim readied himself to jump onto it, to use it as a bridge before reaching the platform. All he had to do was land at the top of the boulder, then slide down the other side.

Before jumping, Jim dared a glance at his communicator. And then he froze.

5 minutes to midnight. Spock had calculated it, and Spock’s calculations were always correct. Jim had five minutes to get onto the platform, grab Spock and leave before the lava would swallow them both.

He felt nauseous and exhausted, but he had no time to spare. Gathering what little force he still had, Jim Kirk pushed himself off the rocky ledge and leapt. He winced in pain as he hit the boulder and scrambled for something to hold onto. But the boulder was smooth, impossibly smooth under his sweaty palms, and he slid downwards in the wrong direction. Away from Spock.

“No!” he cried it out in frustration, kicking and shoving, trying to heave himself up.

He finally stopped sliding down the boulder, but his arms and thighs were burning. He closed his eyes against the surge of agony that coursed through his body, and climbed once more. He was shaking, barely hanging on. Opening his eyes, Jim pulled himself up, but the boulder was large enough that he knew he wouldn’t make it in time.

“No!” he shouted again, consumed by panic and dread like he’d never known before.

Every bone in his body was aching, but nothing hurt more than the realization that he had failed Spock. That he would not be there when the platform gave in. That Spock would fall in, that Spock would be no more. And it was that thought that sent Jim screaming, rage ripping through the pain and terror, arms and legs pushing up, pushing forward, _I will be there Spock, I will save you_.

He pressed his knees onto the boulder and used his arms to haul his entire body up, leaping across the stone instead of climbing. “I promise to love him,” he whispered to himself, the vows taken years ago. He leapt once more, blood trickling down his fingers. “Protect him”. Lava sputtered far beneath him. “Respect him.” His legs gave in, but he continued, crawling up. “From this day forward…” He was almost there. “For better…” A hot wind blew through the crevice. “… or for worse.”

He was at the very top of the boulder, and he didn’t wait a second more before he jumped onto the platform.

Spock was lying there, his right leg twisted at an odd angle, his handsome face bruised and green blood oozing from a deep cut in his cheek. Jim crouched beside him and pulled him close. Spock’s eyes fluttered open.

“Jim,” he breathed, shaking his head, “it is too late, you must leave.”

“Shhh,” Jim held Spock’s head against his chest, allowing himself a moment of relief.

“You cannot carry me out,” Spock said, his brown eyes flickering in the orange light.

“I lost you once, I won’t lose you again,” Jim was already slipping his arms under Spock’s neck and legs, carrying him and standing up.

A wave of boiling hot lava crashed against the platform. Jim pressed his back to the wall and looked up at the sky. “Spock,” he panted, “everything’s going to be fine.”

Suddenly Spock’s hand was on Jim’s cheek, gentle, caressing. “I do not fear the darkness, t’hy’la.”

Jim looked down at Spock, at those deep brown eyes, at that secret half-smile – those beloved features, the beauty and grace that had Jim smiling despite the pain, despite the platform giving out beneath his feet. “There will be no darkness,” he said, “Nothing can happen to you, not while I’m here.”

Spock’s hand slipped into Jim’s hair. “Your eyes are beautiful,” he whispered, “I regret not telling you so every day.”

Jim shook his head. “Don’t talk like that. I’ve never heard you talk like that.”

“You must leave now, before it is too late.”

 “Spock, stop it. I’m not leaving. Whatever happens, we’ll be together.”

Spock’s fingers moved onto Jim’s psi-points. “May I?”

Jim nodded, “Always.”

“Your mind to my mind…”

“Your thoughts to my thoughts…”

“Our minds are merging…”

“Our minds are becoming one.”

The brightest of lights filled the world and the sky exploded. A single mind, a single thought: two bodies, one soul. It was as if they knew everything that needed to be known – as if the universe had unfurled before them. It was both familiar and new. It was both ephemeral and eternal. And as the light faded, only three words remained, glowing, warm and soft, the most precious truth: _I love you_.

~

Jim woke up aboard the Enterprise. The sick bay was silent except for the regular chiming of different machines. Not a trace of pain remained – he certainly had Bones to thank for that.

Jim pushed himself off his bio-bed and walked over to where Spock was resting, on another bio-bed next to his.

“Jim,” Spock whispered.

“Spock…”

They kissed with the passion of young lovers and the devotion of old couples. They kissed – Spock propped up on his elbows, Jim leaning over the bed – and they kissed again, savouring what they had. Gratitude, love and trust poured through the bond from either side.

Whatever happened. They would be together.


	2. Chasing Cars (Garak/Bashir)

Julian Bashir was sprinting through the rain and mud. His lungs burned and his legs ached but still he ran, and ran, and the rain was whipping his face, and he did not care.

“Elim Garak?” the Cardassian male at the space station had looked Julian up and down. “Yes, he lives in this sector. By the old botanical gardens – or what’s left of them. This district took most of the damage during the war.”

Julian had thanked the elderly Cardassian and had been about to leave when the man had said, “But you ought to hurry. He leaves the planet at midnight – told me so himself.”

“Leave?” Julian had panicked, “where is he going?”

“He didn’t say.”

 _Of course not_.

Julian had left Deep Space Nine a week ago with one thing in mind: finding Elim Garak. He’d searched Cardassia Prime for his old friend, fishing for clues in the letters they’d exchanged since Garak had left. He’d never mentioned his exact address, or anything too specific about his new home – a lifetime of training and spying had wrenched that sort of behaviour out of Garak. But Julian knew where to look: everything was between the lines, in the smallest of details.

So Julian had perused the letters, using details from them as a makeshift map. According to that, he’d decided to look in this district, _the one where the flowers used to grow_. And as soon as he’d reached it, as soon as he’d left the hovercraft that had brought him here, he’d searched for _the old man with the limp_ , who always _drank his wine at the space station’s canteen_.

The old man had been surprisingly helpful – even though he’d stared at Julian suspiciously at first. Midnight, he’d said. Eleven thirty, said the space station’s great clock. Julian ran against the wind and rain.

Life on Deep Space Nine had been different after the war. Friends had left; habits had been broken; tears had been shed. And all that had been left for Julian was the memory of how things had been before. After a while, the shadows had started closing in on him. And so he’d left, taken an extended leave and packed everything he owned.

He hadn’t even hesitated. There had only been one place to go, one person to see.

And so Julian ran – ran like his life depended on it. His Starfleet-issue shoulder-bag dangled at his side, slapping his thigh with every bounce. Cardassia’s night was too dark, too damn dark, and the rocky roads were slippery with rain. Julian’s clothes clung to him like a second skin. He was drenched and yet still sweating, the rain doing nothing to stifle Cardassia’s heat.

But he ran. With growing hope and growing despair – he jumped over the rubble of what used to be a house, ducked under a protruding iron bar, tripped on a rock and fell to the ground. He ignored the pain in his knee, the dirt on his shirt, the tear in his trousers. He took off again, squinting in the night, trying to make out what was left of the botanical gardens, the great dome now cut in half. Too damn dark, too damn warm, and Garak was leaving, he was leaving to God knows where and Julian was so close, almost there…

Three words. There were three words that Julian needed to say, three words he should’ve said a long time ago. Three words he’d refused to say; refused to admit. Three words with only one meaning, but he’d been so uncertain of it. So confused by the way he felt. And somehow it had seemed unimportant before, it had seemed like a luxury, like something to think about later. But then Garak had left, and everything had changed.

He was certain now. He was certain as he pushed his legs to keep working; he was certain as he breathed in the air of this alien planet, this broken, shattered place that Garak called home. Garak, who’d smiled at him, who’d held his hand, who’d called him friend. Garak, who’d left, who’d written letters, hundreds of letters, all of them starting with ‘ _my dear doctor_ ’…

The road under Julian’s feet changed into a dusty path leading further into the crumbling district. His shoes were splattered with mud but he kept running, splashing into puddles until his feet were soaking wet. He could see the botanical gardens clearly now, and he could see the rows of houses flanking them.

He’d planned to do this slowly. He’d wanted to stay two or three days, get to know more about Garak’s life here, and then perhaps tell him one night over dinner. Because even when leaving DS9, he hadn’t been as sure as he was now. He’d known about the three words he needed to say, but he’d wanted to be careful, to be certain…

 _Midnight_. Caution be damned; he wanted Garak. He loved Garak. He needed to tell him before he left; he needed to let him know…

Rain slithered down Julian’s back. He looked at the botanical gardens, the houses – only one window lit in the entire street. One small slit of light in the darkness.

“Garak,” Julian panted.

Garak’s hands – so skilled, always so cold, weaving wool and clutching mugs and hovering over Julian’s. Garak’s scales – the way they lined his neck, swept down his jawline, curved over his brow. Garak’s voice, Garak’s smile, Garak’s thoughts and books and holo-pictures and music.

Julian’s knee was throbbing with pain. He pushed himself harder, but he slipped and almost lost his balance. Coming to a halt, Julian winced as he gulped for breath. The single bright window shone in the distance ahead.

Julian didn’t even know what time it was. He was probably too late. Too late, too tired, too dark and too rainy… it was over. He couldn’t take another step.

But then – a memory flooded his mind. Garak’s eyes, blue and gleaming, playful, smart. Garak’s lovely, lovely eyes…

Julian took a deep breath and a steady step forward. Maybe he was too late. Maybe Garak was already gone. Maybe the window wasn’t his, and maybe he’d never know how Julian truly felt. But Julian had come this far in the rain and heat and mud, and he needed to try.

So he ran. Again, he ran like his life depended on it, a single word on his tongue, a single person in his thoughts. _Garak. Garak Garak Garak_.

And he was almost there, so close, and through the pain and discomfort Julian smiled. “Garak!” he yelled into the night, yelled like a madman, because there he was, his silhouette outlined in the window, _yes_ , it was him, it was his beautiful shadow on the dusty path in front of the house. Julian couldn’t see his face, but he knew it was him, and so he yelled again, laughter shaking his voice, “Garak!”

Those three words were suddenly not enough, not nearly enough.

Julian wasn’t even sure if his voice had carried over the rain and wind, so as he reached the door he slammed his fist onto it, then searched frantically for a bell to chime.

 _Garak’s eyes, Garak’s lips, Garak’s voice_ …

And then the door swooshed open, and Garak was standing there.

~

Elim Garak opened the door, and Julian Bashir was standing there.

Soaking wet, rain and mud dripping from his tousled hair, his clothes a mess, his smile the most beautiful thing Elim had ever seen.

A heartbeat. Stunned silence turning into wonder. And then without a word, Elim grabbed Julian by the collar and pulled him into the warmth and shelter of the house, only to push him against a wall and kiss him hard.

Kiss him like his life depended on it. Kiss him like it was the last thing he would ever do – like it was the best thing he’d ever done.

Breathless, Julian kissed him back. Elim heard the young man’s bag hit the floor with a thud. He’d had this dream a thousand times, the doctor at his door, their breaths mingling, their fingers intertwining, but it hadn’t been so heart-wrenchingly desperate. _Mercies_ , Julian was here, Julian had run in the dark and the rain, all the way here.

Elim had thought it impossible. What would a bright and handsome young man like Julian want with him? And even later, even when they’d shared a close friendship, it had remained impossible, because Julian was everything that Elim could never have.

Never – until now. The letters had been a dangerous game, but Elim wouldn’t have let himself hope for this, even when he’d allowed himself to hope.

And yet here they were, their bodies pressed together, the kiss deepening. Julian’s hands were in Elim’s hair, and Elim’s hands were on Julian’s waist, and they were frantic and desperate and completely lost in each other.

Julian pulled away. “You were leaving,” he breathed.

“Yes,” Elim said, planting kisses along Julian’s neck.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t make it… I was afraid…” the doctor’s voice faltered.

Elim tilted his head back just enough to look into those perfect hazel eyes. “I won’t leave, as long as you stay.”

Julian’s throat bobbed with emotion. “I missed you.”  

Elim slid his palm down Julian’s cheek, marvelling at the softness of his skin. “I missed you too.” Not enough. So he added, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Julian whispered, and then he kissed him.


	3. With or Without You (Q/Picard)

The suns were setting over Makus III, and Jean-Luc Picard was watching them sink under the horizon. A light breeze ruffled the grass around him. Tapping his combadge, the captain of the USS Enterprise sighed, “Ready to beam up.”

Setting suns on Makus III – almost midnight by ship-time.

He kept his eyes on the orange sky as his vision blurred and a light tingling feeling numbed his body. As he was transported back up to his ship, he thought of the twin suns setting over the peaceful planet, and of the little house on the hill he had left behind – how the couple living there had thanked him, how happy they had seemed despite their differences, despite the slight impression of unevenness in the way they stood next to each other, like mismatched puzzle pieces.

He closed his eyes then, cursing himself. The tingling was fading, but the transporter’s chime still lingered in his ears. He’d been having such thoughts – _such dangerous thoughts_ – for too long. And for too long, the person he’d been thinking of with such recklessness had refused to show himself.

After their last encounter, Jean-Luc thought things would change. The quivering of excitement in Q’s voice had seemed almost like a confession – the words had been a gentle warning, but the tone had told a different tale. For weeks afterwards it had echoed in Jean-Luc’s ears, that simple sentence that Q had spoken with such _human_ passion; “See you… out there.” And then he’d disappeared, and he hadn’t come back.

Jean-Luc was left alone with the gut-wrenching words, not knowing if he’d ever see Q again. Not knowing if it had all been a lie, a ruse, a trick of his imagination – or if it truly meant something.

And then Q had begun invading his every thought. Everything was a painful reminder of him: every person, every situation, every forbidding dream. He’d started pondering things Q had said in the past, giving them different meanings, analysing everything. And sometimes… well, sometimes it ached and sometimes it soothed, but no matter what interpretation Jean-Luc pinned upon Q’s words, they always sent him reeling.

_“You're not alone, you know. What you were, and what you are to become, will always be with you.”_

_“In any case, I'll be watching.”_

_“The Continuum didn't think you had it in you, Jean-Luc. But I knew you did.”_

_“Goodbye, Jean-Luc. I'm gonna miss you. You had such potential. But then again, all good things must come to an end.”_

The transporter chime faded entirely, and Jean-Luc opened his eyes. He wasn’t in the transporter room, but in his own quarters. And standing in the very center of the room was Q, wearing a captain’s uniform – the twin to the one Jean-Luc wore.

 It felt like being punched in the stomach.

“How cruel must you be?” Jean-Luc breathed. He dared not move – dared not speak above a whisper.

Q said nothing. He stood there with unnatural stillness; his eyes alight with an entirely alien gleam. A shiver snaked down Jean-Luc’s spine, but he straightened his back and swallowed hard. “Why are you here? You haven’t deigned a visit in ten months.”

A small, vicious smile slowly spread onto Q’s lips. “You’ve been counting,” he said. His first words in ten months – yes, dammit, he _had_ been counting.

Jean-Luc could feel his hands tremble with rage. All this time and now he chose to appear, just when Jean-Luc was thinking of him. “Have you been mucking about in my head, Q? Planting thoughts into my mind?” he spat, his rage a white-hot wall of flame in his chest.

Q’s smile widened into a lazy grin. “Oh no, Jean-Luc,” he tilted his head back with inhuman grace, “I’ve made it a personal rule of sorts to never interfere with your tiny human brain. It ruins the fun. Whatever thoughts are bothering you, _mon capitaine_ , are entirely your own.”

Jean-Luc’s cheeks burned with shame and anger and hurt, and although he tried, he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice as he said, “ _Fun_ – this is all a game to you then, isn’t it? You know perfectly well what I mean. For once, Q, let me know the truth.”

And then those alien eyes darkened, and it felt as if a cold wind had swiped the room when the smile faded from Q’s face. “What truth are you looking for, Jean-Luc? The one that pleases you or the one that is hard to hear?”

A wave of panic gripped Jean-Luc so unexpectedly that he staggered. He reached out a trembling hand and held onto his desk. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

Q closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. Such a human expression. “You never understood…” Q’s voice was strained.

The anger seeped back into Jean-Luc veins, making his blood boil. “Yes,” he nodded resentfully, “how could I possibly understand? What with my ‘tiny human brain’…”

Silence fell upon them, thick with anger and hurt and words left unsaid, unspoken. And then a sharp intake of breath, and Jean-Luc was calm again. So very calm as he asked, “What do you want from me? Why are you here?”

Q’s eyes flew open. “I don’t know. I told myself I had nothing more to do on this ship, but I keep coming back, and I thought that you would’ve understood by now…”

“Why must you make me crawl for an answer every damn time?” Jean-Luc shouted, his calmness and control snapping like a twig, “Just tell me, Q – you’ve made me beg before, I won’t do it again – tell me what you’re here for!”

Q’s eyebrows tilted upwards. “I can’t,” the entity breathed.

There was something desperate about the words – something desperate and pleading and so unlike Q… but, no, he would not relent.

“Then leave,” Jean-Luc said, seething with an anger he wasn’t sure he still felt.

Q straightened his back. His eyes were veiled, cold and barren. Unearthly, unknown: he was one of the Q, and the mighty power of billions of years of existence coiled in his very being.

“I will,” he spoke with his human voice, nodded with his human body, but Jean-Luc had never been so utterly aware of how otherworldly the entity truly was. “A human lifetime is but a nanosecond to me, Picard. I will not be coming back.”

A flash of blinding white light – and he was gone.

Gone. Forever.

Jean-Luc, still gripping his desk, let out a gasp of disbelief. He pushed himself into the sleeping area of his chambers, a heavy weight on his chest, his entire body a brutal reminder of his own mortal misery. This, all this – it was but a nanosecond for Q.

But, damn it all to hell, it was _everything_ for Jean-Luc Picard. The past ten months – _the past seven years_ – he’d somehow known that this would mean everything to him. Something had pulled him towards that entity from the very start. The most annoying being in creation – devious and amoral and unreliable and irresponsible and definitely not to be trusted…

And now he was gone forever and Jean-Luc’s world was collapsing. He let himself fall onto his bed and buried his head into his open palms. The world was collapsing.

~

Q hovered above the Enterprise, invisible in his non-corporeal form. He could see right through the bulkhead of Starfleet’s flagship, right through walls and walls of primitive Federation technology. He could see Jean-Luc Picard, sitting on his bed with his face in his hands.

And Q _ached_. Not in the physical way he’d experienced when punished by the Continuum, when he’d been a hapless mortal on this very ship. No – this was an entirely different pain. Something was wrenching at his very being, triggered by the sight of the captain’s misery.

And Q _longed_. He knew the longing by now, it was familiar. He hated it, but it had been there for quite some time. How they had mocked him, in the Continuum. How they had sneered.

But Jean-Luc’s words had been haunting Q’s thoughts.

 _‘Thank you’_ , he’d said, with such unashamed gratitude, with such Human warmth. Jean-Luc Picard had thanked Q, after all that was done and said. Noble – he was noble and decent and honourable and everything that Q wasn’t.

Everything that Q was supposed to abhor.

Everything that Q loved.

Q loved this Human. Q loved this puny little Earthman who was mourning him on his puny little bed. Oh, but for his noble Human heart, for the grace in his unwavering goodness, Q could not fool himself into believing that Jean-Luc was puny. He may not have the all-powerful supremacy of the Q, but he had something stronger. Something brighter, and better – something Q cherished.

So, without warning, without light or sound or artifice, Q materialized back in Jean-Luc’s quarters in his human form. He stood there for a while in silence, watching Jean-Luc who simple sat on his bed, lost and broken. It hurt – oh how it hurt, to see the man he loved in such a state.

Just then, Jean-Luc turned.

Their eyes met. The silence was a living thing, spiralling around them and through them and suddenly Jean-Luc was on his feet, eyes wide, mouth open. “Q,” he whispered.

Q blinked. “Jean-Luc,” he answered.

And then they were running towards each other, desperately, like every second could tear them apart, like every moment was their last. They fell into each other’s arms. They looked into each other’s eyes. Jean-Luc’s hand was on Q’s neck, pulling him downwards.

“Your eyes… they look so human,” Jean-Luc said softly.

Q raised his eyebrows. He was about to give a sarcastic retort, but Jean-Luc silenced him with a kiss.

 _Jean-Luc Picard kissed Q_.

Stars exploded and galaxies shattered. Q rattled the very core of creation as Jean-Luc kissed him harder, deeper; desperate and passionate and angry.  

He pulled away to breathe with such charming mortal vulnerability. “Don’t ever make me wait again,” he panted frantically, “every day without you, I could’ve died. Q, I could’ve died without you.”

And it shook Q so much that he let his human body lean into Jean-Luc, let their foreheads touch. “Can you live with me, though?”

Jean-Luc smiled. “I think it’s worth a try.”

And he kissed him again.

 


	4. Somewhere Only We Know (Charles/Erik)

Charles Xavier scribbled a note at the top of the paper. Grading was not his favourite part of teaching, but he enjoyed getting to know his students more through their essays. He smiled to himself as he looked over this particular copy. The fancy, sweeping handwriting and little hearts above the “i”s might’ve been whimsical, but the content of the paper was quite interesting.

And then the clock chimed half past eleven – the great grandfather clock that he kept in his rooms. He hadn’t cared much for it as a young man, but now that he was old, well, he found comfort in the constant ticking and chiming. Ironic, really, how the passage of time became such a comfort to him in his sunset years.

Charles put his pen down. It was about time he got to bed. With old age came a love for clocks and a tendency to fall asleep in his wheelchair. Pushing himself away from his desk, Charles slid his palms over the wheels in his chair and turned to close the balcony doors.

 _He_ was there. Standing at the edge, his fingers grazing the balustrade, his coat whipping his ankles in the winter wind. And he was wearing that damned helmet. Tall and cold and oh so still.

Charles pushed himself out onto the balcony. “Erik,” he whispered into the night.

All at once, the silent, towering figure came to life: Erik Lehnsherr brought both his hands up and tore the helmet off his head. His hair, white as snow, fell into his eyes then blew away in the wind. Eyes that met Charles with aching familiarity. 

“Good evening, Charles,” Erik said. Quiet, reserved – as usual. As always.

And then the surprise faded and Charles took a shuddering breath. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

“It’s cold outside,” Erik ignored his question, placing the helmet on the balustrade.

“I’m not inviting you in,” Charles willed his voice to calm.

Erik shifted on his feet. The light from the bedroom was casting orange shadows onto the man’s face. Charles could _feel_ his old friend’s thoughts, could almost reach out and touch his mind… but he did not.

“Very well,” Erik said, and there was hurt in there, hurt and anger and regret, and Charles wanted to hurt him even more for it.

Instead, he said, “I thought we’d agreed years ago: no more unannounced late-night visits. If I can’t even know where you are, it’s only fair that you refrain from using your advantage. We set that rule for a reason. I don’t appreciate this at all.”

 _Advantage. Rule_. More words to hurt, to injure, to push him away. Charles wasn’t proud of himself, but he couldn’t allow Erik to threaten him in such a blatant manner. “Leave my school,” Charles said, intending it as the final blow, but Erik wasn’t listening.  No. He was taking tentative steps forward, eyes locked on Charles’.

“My old friend,” Erik whispered, and it was too warm, too soft, too intimate for a winter night on the balcony. Charles shook his head, but Erik got closer. “I think we must talk.”

“We’ve talked, Erik. I won’t back down. If my X-Men are impeding your – ”

“This isn’t about your… _X-Men_ ,” Erik couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. “This is about us.”

The way he said it, with such unwavering certainty, with such _hope_ …  Charles closed his eyes. “No, don’t –”

“Is it ever too late, Charles?” Erik was talking fast now, and Charles looked up to find his eyes pleading, gleaming with possibility.

“Please, Erik –”

“I haven’t seen you in so long, old friend. I ask only that you hear me out.”

“Now? Now, Erik? After all these years…” and there was anger in Charles’ words, all the frustration of all those wasted years, seeping out of him with a vigour he’d thought he’d lost. “I may have been ready to hear you before, but I’ve waited too long.”

“You trusted me when I had nothing to win or lose, I’m asking you to trust me again now,” Erik said, and for a moment Charles could see the young men they had been, standing on this very balcony, both of them on their feet, and the trust there once had been.

But then one of them had no longer been able to stand, and the other had covered his eyes and ears to everything around him.

“You speak of trust,” Charles’ voice was trembling, “and yet you come here late at night, wearing that helmet. And you seek something you threw away too many times, too long ago.”

And he turned his wheelchair away, back towards the balcony doors, his rooms, the Mansion, back to the world beyond – a world where Charles was Professor X, and Erik was Magneto, and they were rigid, unrelenting leaders. 

But then the metal in Charles’ wheelchair moaned and cracked, and it swerved, turning back. Erik was there, palm extended, his power rumbling in the air around them as it pulled Charles’ chair forward. And then Erik’s hand was pressed on the top of the chair and his eyes were all Charles could see – eyes so blue in the dim light, so blue and so close.

“Stay,” Erik breathed, choking on desperation and longing.

Charles shook his head. “I can’t,” he whispered back with equal anguish. Erik’s thoughts rippled off of him, but he would not – could not stand to read them. And this was their truth. They were not Professor X and Magneto – they were both old, both tried and lost and broken.

“I’ve dreamed of this place almost every night,” Erik said softly, “I’ve never told you that have I? How I longed for it, how I used to love –”

“Oh God, Erik,” Charles looked away, but Erik leaned in closer, so close that their breaths mingled.

“Look at me, Charles. Hear what I have to say.”

“I can’t trust you, you know that.”

Silence settled over them. And it was just them, on that balcony like so many years ago, but now Charles could no longer walk – and Erik… “Why did you come here? What are you looking for?” Charles asked.

“I’m looking for hope,” Erik said, ever so slowly, the blue in his eyes rimmed with gray.

Charles’ eyes softened. He smiled. “I will bring you hope, old friend.”

And then, with one hand behind Erik’s neck, Charles brought their lips together.

The clock chimed midnight. Erik reached out his mind to Charles, and Charles took in his thoughts, his prayers, his hurt and his longings. As they kissed under the night sky, forgiveness was sought, and forgiveness was given. In his mind, Erik heard Charles’ voice. _We’re too old for this_.

Erik deepened the kiss. _Shut up, Charles. We’ve wasted enough time_.

 _Hope, then_.

Hope. It was all they had, and it was enough.


	5. Fix You (Holmes/Watson)

Snow glistened over London and the grand clock in Mrs. Hudson’s living room chimed eleven. John Watson was restless. He tapped his foot on the floorboards and pulled on a loose thread in his shirt. February had glided in like a swift winter wind. Holmes had said he’d be back in the morning on the thirteenth. And yet Watson had dined alone.

He looked outside the window. Baker Street was empty, cold and white. Snowflakes danced in the glow of a solitary lantern, and still no one came knocking at their door. Mrs. Hudson would be sleeping by now.

Watson pushed himself off the chair with a groan. He walked towards the window, fingers digging into the palms of his hands. He was sweating despite the cold. Leaning forwards, he peered out the closed window, his nose colliding with the freezing glass.

And there, spattered over the snow on the street, were tiny red dots.

Watson grabbed his coat and hat off the chair and ran down the stairs. He pulled the door open and darted into the street, over the road, up to where he’d seen the red dots, gleaming in the lamp-light. The stark scarlet circles stood out boldly against the white of the snow. As Watson crouched to examine them, his mind fed him imaginings that made his heart pound with terror.

Blood – it was blood, not quite dry.

Watson knew no inhabitant of Baker Street who could be suspected of bleeding to death on the pavement – except for one. The darkness seemed to be looming over the doctor as he stood up, scanning the street for any traces of struggle. But there were none; just the blood, a trail of red heading up the street and then down into an alleyway.

It was calm and quite, eerily so, but Watson followed the path paved in blood. Not a sound, not a whisper. With growing unease, Watson ran into the alley. The weight of his revolver, nestled in the inner pocket of his coat, was reassuring.

The alleyway was small and dark. Watson’s eyes studied every nook – _looking for a body_ , he realized. He shivered, but not from the cold. More blood was leading up and out of the alley, out into a small patch of greenery – or what would’ve been green, had the snow not covered the entire garden. Too much blood… the path was too long, and what if it was too late? _Good God_ , he couldn’t allow himself to think of that. He ran, with all the strength in his body, he ran out of the alley and jumped over a small fence to enter the frozen garden. 

 _Stupid_. He’d been stupid to let Holmes leave alone. After all this time, why had he not learned?

He ran, stumbling on every crack and crevice on the ground. His hat fell off his head and his coat flew open as a gust of wind whipped his face, but he ran. He did not stop.

This could not happen. Not after they’d found each other, not after years of confusion, years of being lost and not knowing that they’d wanted each other from the very start. How could Watson lose him now that all was clear? Now that…

But as he stepped into the garden, Watson froze. The trail of blood was coming to an end. A memory from before Holmes had left filled his mind. He panted, standing in the snow, frowning as he recalled that evening. He’d asked to accompany his friend, but Holmes had refused – as he often did. However, upon leaving, the detective had turned. His had been on the doorknob. “Don’t miss me, Watson,” he’d said, with a secret smile. It had made Watson laugh at the time… why had he been _so stupid_?

Holmes usually never turned back. Eyes set on the horizon, mind already in tumult – that was Sherlock Holmes: never one to waste time with witticisms during an important case. No, when he worked a case he was inscrutable and undisruptable. Watson should’ve known something was wrong.

A clock far-off chimed midnight, and Watson’s breath caught as he beheld the body in the snow; a thin man with dark hair. He ran, one last time, and fell to his knees beside his friend. Frantic, he slid his fingers over the too-cold wrist – a pulse, _a pulse for the love of God_ – and, yes, there it was, faint but certain, and Watson cursed aloud, relief making his shoulders sag. He then patted his friend’s chest, his stomach, his arms, making sure everything was in one piece. The source of the bleeding was Holmes’ right leg. Panting, Watson reached down and ripped a strip of cloth from his undershirt. He bandaged the wound and squeezed the fabric tight to stop the bleeding. Holmes groaned.

“Holmes – Holmes, wake up old boy,” Watson prompted, placing his freezing hand against Holmes’ face.

The detective’s eyelids fluttered once, twice – and then deep dark eyes met Watson’s. Snowflakes clung to his eyelashes, making him blink. “Always good to see you, Watson,” Holmes whispered.

At those words, emotion gripped Watson so unexpectedly that he bit down on his trembling lower lip. “Let’s get you home,” he said, carefully pulling his friend up.

“I can walk,” Holmes lied, wincing in pain as Watson slid a strong arm around his waist.

“No you can’t,” the doctor replied, holding Holmes up.

He half-carried him back to Baker Street, back to 221B, up into his rooms, down onto the bed. Without a word, Watson mended Holmes’ wound, wrapped him in blankets, prepared hot tea and soup. It had become second-nature – as a doctor, as a friend. Nothing could have disturbed the silent ritual of Watson caring for Holmes.

Nothing, except for the ache in Watson’s chest. He ignored it as long as he could, pushed it down and looked away, until the detective was safe and comfortable and warm. Then, instead of leaving to let him rest, Watson sat in a chair beside the bed.

“ _’Don’t miss me Watson’_ – what did you mean?” he said, his voice barely audible despite all the silence.

Holmes frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Before you left, you said ‘ _don’t miss me Watson’_ – what did you mean?” Anger was slowly seeping into his tone, and he let it show; all his rage and frustration and hurt.

“I don’t quite understand…” Holmes feigned ignorance.

“No? Let me explain it to you then,” Watson propped his elbows on his knees and leaned in, “You knew something like this – or worse – was going to happen, and yet you left alone.”

“You’ve never complained before –”

“ _Before_ , because it was not my place, because I dared not speak of it. However, now…”

 _Now that all had been revealed, now that they knew each other’s truth, now that they sometimes shared a bed…_ Watson sighed.

“You will think me weak, but I cannot bear it all in silence,” Watson breathed, looking away. Away from those eyes that knew him so well, from the piercing gaze that saw everything.

Holmes shifted on the bed. “I would never think you weak, Watson,” he said, and there was a softness to his voice, a tenderness unlike any Watson had ever heard.

And then he understood – the blood on Baker Street, the blood leading _away_ from Baker Street… the trail Holmes had left in the snow, the way his body had been there in plain sight, the way he’d waited, injured and cold, with complete and utter faith that Watson would find him…

“No one attacked you,” Watson whispered, eyes wide as the realization hit him, “You injured yourself, right here in front of our door. You were trying to lead someone away from here, but you needed me to find you.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Holmes’ mouth. “Very good, Watson – quite impressive, the way you’ve developed your powers of deduction and observation.”

Watson shook his head. “You needed someone to think that you were attacked,” he went on, thinking aloud, “you needed to spill enough blood to lead someone to believe that you are severely impaired – if not dead.”

Holmes reclined back onto his pillows with a satisfied grin. “Precisely.”

“But why?” Watson frowned, “Criminals have threatened you before. You’ve been chased all over the continent, you could have done it once more. You were never afraid of the chase before…”

 _Before_. The word echoed, lingering in the air between them. Holmes nodded slowly. “Before, yes, because, like you, I dared not speak of it,” he said, oh so quietly, “But things have changed, and I find that I cannot be away from you for so long.”

“But the wound – you injured yourself, you put yourself in danger…”

“You found me.”

The doctor shook his head. “What if I hadn’t?”

“I knew you would,” Holmes said with such unwavering trust that Watson looked away again.

“And why…” Watson started, but he already knew the answer. Holmes had led them away from Baker Street, away from 221B, away from Watson. And it hurt more than anything that through the need to protect him, his friend had endangered himself.

“It was worth the wound,” Holmes smiled, echoing words Watson had said years ago.

And then – silence. Watson looked up, meeting Holmes’ eyes. They stared at each other, and in the dim light they seemed to be the only two beings in creation. The night was cold and quiet and empty, so Watson filled it with words he’d never thought he’d say, “I love you.”

Holmes closed his eyes, as if a gentle summer breeze had caressed his face. He whispered something under his breath, almost to himself – like a revelation, like a prayer – and although Watson couldn’t be sure, he thought it was: “As do I, John.”


End file.
